


Recovery Time

by Anonymous



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hannibal cares for Bedelia after her surgery in more ways than one.





	1. Chapter 1

In the liminal space between the end of therapy and their customary glass of wine, Bedelia broaches a delicate subject. It is nothing out of the ordinary, but for some reason her voice trembles, devoid of the authority she displayed moments before as Hannibal’s psychiatrist. “I must inform you, Hannibal, that I will be unavailable to meet with you the first two weeks of next month. I wanted to give you adequate time to make alternate arrangements if you required them.”

He blinks back at her, the stare of some odd warm-blooded reptile. “Vacation?” he inquires.

“No,” she says through thinned lips. “I am having rotator cuff surgery on my right shoulder. An old skiing injury. It is a fairly routine procedure, I am told, but my doctor has recommended I take at least two weeks recovery time before resuming work.”

“I didn’t know you skied, Doctor,” he says, leaning back in his chair in appraisal.

“I was on my college team. I have not had much opportunity to do so since moving here and starting my practice.” She can imagine him imagining her gliding down the slopes, the wind fanning out her hair, cheeks rosy with cold. It makes her want to blush. “Do you require a referral for the two weeks I am gone?”

“No, I believe I can manage,” he says carefully. “Red or white?”

*

The post-op painkillers make her hazy. She slips from sleep to wakefulness and back again. It is a restless, unsatisfying slumber, one punctuated with beeps from machines and overheard conversations between doctors and the nursing staff. Her normally sharp mind feels altogether soft and blurred, wooly and fluffy like a child’s stuffed lamb.

It becomes hard to differentiate between the dreaming world and the waking one. She feels her body coursing down the slopes like a snow leopard, speeding faster and faster downhill, unmindful of the risk. She is wantonly reckless and it exhilarates her. And then she is at the lodge. It is warm there, with pinewood beams and a roaring fire. A crowd of young men jostles for her attention, as they did in those days. One of them presses a steaming mug of  _chocolat vert_  into her hands; the sweetness and the spice come together, burning all the way down. When she turns to thank her admirer, his hair is silvered with grey, his warm, cognac brown eyes all too familiar. All her other beaux are gone, but Hannibal remains, alone with her in the firelight.

Bedelia opens her eyes, feeling a pressure on her left wrist as the nurse checks her vital signs. There is a smell of flowers in the air amid the institutional odors of the hospital along with another scent her nose seems to recognize, masculine and woodsy.

“You’re doing, fine, Dr. Du Maurier,” the nurse, Carla, says. “And you have a visitor.”

She cannot move, but her eyes glide over to her right side. Hannibal is sitting there, a book in his lap, sheepish smile on his face.

“Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Hannibal.” She is unsure—unsettled—to have him here. Reflexively, she clutches the bedclothes and brings them up to her neck to cover her thin blue hospital gown. “I don’t believe I told you the date of my operation. Or the location,” she says with a pointed stare.

“I may have asked around. I know Dr. Van Horn from my surgical days—he does very fine work. They tell me the procedure went well,” he says, leaning forward to grasp her hand, sending an unexpected surge of warmth through her veins.

“She’s making good progress, Dr, Lecter. They should be able to discharge her to Federal Grove tomorrow.”

“Federal Grove—the rehabilitation center?” Hannibal cocks his head at her.

Bedelia nods silently, withdrawing her hand from him, withdrawing back within her self-protective shell.

Carla’s eyes shift between the two of them before resting on Bedelia. “You know, you would not need to go to the rehab center at all if you had someone at home to take care of you for the next ten days. A family member. Or a friend.”

“It would be my pleasure to supervise Dr. Du Maurier during her recovery period. That is, if she wants me to.” His eyes on her are molten chocolate warm and his body language is eager with anticipation, giddy like a schoolboy underneath his refinement of his person suit. “What do you say, Bedelia?”

Bedelia pokes at her wobbly cup of lime Jello with a fork. She had never enjoyed Jello even as a child and being forced to eat it now as a grown woman feels like some kind of insult. The greyish meat that is supposed to pass for chile con carne is even less appetizing. The whirs and beeps and cacophony of the hospital at midday make her nervy and jumpy. Perhaps she had misjudged her ability to endure such an environment for more than a few days. She longs for the quiet of her own home and the comfort of her own bed with its fine lavender-scented sheets.

It would be wrong, so very wrong and selfish to take advantage of Hannibal’s offer. But the unpleasantness of the hospital and the pain of the operation have worn down her reserve, and so she speaks the words she knows he longs to hear; “Will you help me?”

*

As promised, she is discharged the next day. Hannibal gingerly tucks her in to the passenger side of his sumptuous Bentley. The interior is so plush and opulent, the engine so quiet, she nearly falls asleep inside its soft cocoon of leather and luxury. He escorts her up the drive with the same care, and though she does not think she needs it, she allows herself the steady comfort of his arm. It is only practical, she tells herself, a fall on her icy driveway would only serve to make things worse.

Hannibal takes her coat with a gentlemanly air, careful to avoid her tender shoulder. She pleads tiredness and retreats in the direction of her bedroom, firmly rejecting his offer to help her change for bed.

“I must learn to do things for myself, Hannibal. The painkillers are working. I will be fine,” she assures him as he casts a concerned look in her direction.

Moments later in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she is forced to eat her words. A lightning strike of pain shoots down her shoulder as she attempts to remove her blouse. But she is far too stubborn and proud to call for his help, never mind let him see her in such a state of undress. Wincing all the while, she manages to pull on her silk pajama top and bottoms before rolling into bed. The sheets are cool, the duvet fluffy and soft, and she is so enveloped in comfort she sleeps the rest of the afternoon without waking once.

*

The sun is setting when Bedelia finally opens her eyes, groggy from a dream she does not remember. Hannibal is there beside her with a glass of water and a sampler of pills and capsules. She takes them obediently; the opiates are a necessary evil, though she hates the slow, woozy way they make her feel.

“Your medication needs to be taken with food.” He turns from her to set a silver tray across her lap. Bright pink poached salmon, a tiny mountain of rice pillaf, and tender shoots of asparagus steam away on her plate. To the side, a small bottle of Perrier and what appears to be some kind of lemon sorbet for dessert. It’s so much nicer than the food at the hospital, she nearly wants to weep.

“Thank you, Hannibal. You really should not have gone to such trouble,” she says, though she knows that for Hannibal preparing a meal for her is less an inconvenience and more of a fantasy fulfilled. The salmon flakes under the side of her fork; it melts on her tongue like butter. “Delicious.”

He smiles at her indulgently, drinking her in as if she were a painting by one of his favorite Renaissance masters. “You need your strength. Please, eat.”

After a day of fasting and hospital rations, Bedelia finds she is ravenous and does not need to be told twice. She eats the fish and rice easily but fumbles when it comes to the asparagus. She cannot manage to cut it with only one good arm.

Without being asked, Hannibal says, “Allow me,” and proceeds to slice through the green shoots with a surgeon’s ease. Bedelia blushes a little at the thought of needing to have her food cut up for her like a helpless child; thank heavens she can at least manage to feed herself.

As she nears the end of her meal, Hannibal remarks, “It was the best I could do with the little you had on hand. Tomorrow I will go to the market and pick up a few necessities from my own cupboards. I found the salmon in your freezer…along with several boxes of what can only be described as  _frozen dinners_.” He pronounces the words with such distaste she must restrain herself from laughing. “Surely you did not intend to survive on these while you are convalescing.”

“They are gourmet and organic,” she says defensively. It’s not as if her freezer had been stocked with a month’s worth of Lean Cuisine. “As my arm will have to be in a sling for at least six weeks, I will be unable to cook as I normally would. This seemed like an effective solution.”

He takes away her tray, pursing his lips the way he does when he is metaphorically swallowing something distasteful. His eyes when they look at her are swimming with disappointment. “I would have cooked for you.”

“Hannibal…”

“I thought perhaps your sister would be coming from Chicago, but you would rather be cared for by strangers in some lonely hospital.”

“Christabel is not the caregiving kind. We do not have that kind of relationship. There was no one to ask.” It sounds so sad to admit it out loud. She knows how bleak it must look to him, he who is always surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, flitting from opera gala to dinner party, ever the social butterfly.

“You could have asked me. I told you, I feel protective of you.”

“You are my patient, Hannibal. It is my responsibility to care for you—not the opposite.” No matter how many times she says the words, they do not seem to penetrate his skull. The more she insists on maintaining boundaries, the thinner and more fragile they seem to become. “I did not want you to see me this way—as weak.”

He curls his large hand around hers; it makes her feel both warm and small. “My dear Doctor Du Maurier, this is not weakness…it is a temporary condition. I am sure in a few weeks’ time you will heal and resume your life stronger than you were before, as your shoulder will no longer pain you as it did.”

“In my heart, I know what you say is true, but still, in the moment my body feels something else.”

“I understand,” he says. A smile begins to bloom on his face and there is that boyish mischief in his eyes. “Though I will remind you, for the next two weeks you have suspended our patient-psychiatrist relationship. You are my friend and colleague, not my doctor. If you can permit this temporary change in our relationship, that may ease some of the discomfort you are feeling.”

The part of her that longs to be cared for, that aches for company nearly swoons at the prospect, at war with her deep need to hide her weakness. But her professional armor feels paper-thin in her present state, her professional walls too heavy to maintain. She remembers her dream from the day before—Hannibal beckons to her, calls to her, and she longs to come in from the cold at last and feel his warmth.

“I will try,” she says weakly.


	2. Chapter 2

She does try, as antithetical to her nature as it is to do so. Letting go and letting herself enjoy Hannibal’s company is as unnatural as having to complete most of her daily tasks with her non-dominant hand. She shuffles through her day, as unsteady as a three-day-old faun.

She forces herself to dress, though she is shy at being seen by him in something as informal as the dark black leggings and soft zip up sweatshirt she usually wears to Pilates. There is some small consolation in the fact she is not wearing pajamas. He cooks for her and joins her for meals and Bedelia feels spoiled—as much by the richness of their conversation as by the gourmet quality of the food. Truly she cannot remember the last time she had enjoyed such rarified treats, not since her retirement, surely.

Her home feels warm and full in a way it never has. She had always believed that solitude suited her best, that she preferred her own company most of all. But Hannibal slides so naturally into her home, as if he had always been there. It is contrary to everything she has ever known about herself, and yet she likes it.

The hours pass by quickly and soon she finds herself tired and ready for bed. Bedelia tries again to undress herself, gingerly removing her sling and unzipping her sweatshirt. As she attempts to unhook her bra, she moves her right shoulder in exactly the wrong way, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain she cannot control.

In a second, Hannibal appears in her doorway, clad in pajama bottoms from the waist down and absolutely nothing from the waist up. “Are you all right? I heard you cry out.”

She wants to tell him she’s fine, but she can’t. Her shoulder sings with pain and there are tears in her eyes. “I need your help…getting ready for bed. My shoulder is more stiff today.”

“Of course,” he replies, moving closer. He is very careful to not let his eyes wander below neck level.

His gentlemanly reserve only makes her more conscious of her state of undress. Her cheeks burn as she turns around, presenting him with her naked back, clutching her pajama top to her breasts. “Here,” she says, gesturing to the clasp of her bra. “Can you?”

Wordlessly, his fingertips brush against her spine, undoing the hook and eye closure and freeing her. His touch lingers for a moment, causing a delicious warmth to spread from the middle of her back, a slow current of pleasure amid the pain. She swallows, trembling beneath his touch, but cannot bring herself to tell him to stop as his fingers travel higher, thumbs slipping under the left strap before he very carefully peels down the right. She slips one arm out, then the other, wincing again.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“It just hurts,” she says with a scowl. Then adds, before she can stop herself, “You were very gentle.” She’s still clutching the blue silk pajama top to her breasts, aware in a moment she will be utterly exposed in front of him. Underneath the pain, she’s aroused, far more than she ought to be. She hands her top to him the way one might rip off a Band-Aid, quick and impulsive. “Would you help me put this on?”

She stands there, feeling herself visibly tremble. She is all too aware of her naked breasts on display for him, nipples hard and aching but not from cold. Hannibal stands behind her again close enough for her to feel his body heat and it would be so easy to press her warm flesh against his and feel his nakedness against her own. He holds out one arm for her, tugging up the left sleeve first and then the right before helping to fasten her sling over her shoulder. Somehow, his touch is so precise, so gentle, it barely hurts at all.

“Done,” he pronounces, backing away.

In that split-second moment, Bedelia makes a decision, not unlike the reckless one that caused her to take the slalom too sharp and end up injured in the first place over twenty years ago. She turns to face him, top still unbuttoned, breasts proud and exposed in the night air. She places a hand on his own naked chest, right over the warm place near his heart. “Do you always sleep uncovered like this?”

He doesn’t pull away, merely reaches a hand up to cover her own, holding it there. “No. Normally, I sleep in the nude. This is a concession to you.”

She brings his hand to her bare breast and he cups it entirely in his palm. She doesn’t ask him with words, but he knows what she wants, what she is offering, and he accepts, kneading and cupping and teasing until her knees melt and she moans with pleasure.

Smiling like a cat with a saucer of cream, he takes her left hand and draws her over to her bed. He pulls down the duvet and climbs in, patting a space beside him. “Come here.”

Bedelia does so, lying on her left side. Hannibal pulls her against him, hand snug about her waist, so she can rest against him completely supported.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, accent huskier and thicker than normal.

“Heavenly.”

His broad hand snakes down her abdomen, teasing at the waistband of her pajama bottoms. “I want to make you feel good. To take your mind off the pain. Will you let me?”

“Yesss,” she says and it comes out in a hiss. Her consent is all it takes for him to begin to tease her through her underwear, light touches that are equal parts precise and maddening. He nuzzles the silk of her hair and plants soft kisses along her jaw and earlobe; the scratch of his stubble against her tender skin excites her, a perfect contrast. She feels her legs spread wider, encouraging him to stop teasing her and go deeper until at last there is one finger inside of her, fucking her ever so slowly.

“So good,” she whispers. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises, but does not change his pace, does not offer  _more_  as she so desperately wants him to, and continues to finger fuck her in this slow, deliberate way. It’s working; she finds herself relaxing, taut muscles going slack beneath his hands.

“Close your eyes. Let go,” he commands. “Focus only on the pleasure.”

His voice, his touch is hypnotic. Dr. Du Maurier would resist, but Bedelia lets herself be pulled under by it. His other hand is firm about her waist and she can feel him hard and hot against her bottom. She can’t touch him, but settles for wriggling against him, eliciting a moan from Hannibal.

“No,” he says. “No movement. You must be still.”

“It feels selfish to have you touch me this way,” she says, turning slightly to face him.

He kisses her warmly on the lips, a kiss that leaves her longing for more, a kiss that ends too soon. “You are allowed to be selfish. You are recovering. And I am taking care of you.”

To underscore his point, he stretches her open with a second finger, curling them both inside her until he finds that needy spot that she has been so desperate for him to touch. Her good hand teases her nipples as she rocks back and forth against his fingers. His thumb moves to caress her clit, causing her to clench and buck against him. “Very good,” he says, voice hot with lust against her ear. The praise sets off a cascade of pleasure inside her brain—she has never responded this way to any other lover. Her pain-ravaged body is so hungry, starved for touch— _his touch—_ she is able at last to give up and give in, falling to pieces as he holds her steady in his arms.

After the high comes the crash, as a vague sadness rises up around her, a tide of second thoughts and regret. Bedelia instinctively tries to pull out of his embrace, and she can feel Hannibal reluctantly let her go.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Bedelia swallows and wipes away a stray tear with her forefinger. “This interlude of ours is only for a handful of days. Knowing that what we have started will end so soon makes me regret we even began.”

He gathers her back in his arms again, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It need not only be an interlude. Who says it has to end?”

Bedelia rolls her eyes, knowing he cannot see her from this angle. “The APA, the AMA, and every single psychiatric authority on the planet. I cannot be romantically involved with a patient. You  _know_  that.”

“Yes, Bedelia, I know. I simply do not care,” he says matter-of-factly.

She shifts so she can face him and her nose brushes his—a prelude to a kiss. “You consider us to be above the rules.”

“Aren’t we?” he says, before diving in for a kiss, a good, long thorough one. When she grabs him by the back of his neck to deepen it, he stills her. “Now, you musn’t overextend yourself. You need to rest.”

She sighs, turning over, humming with pleasure as he gathers her in his arms again. For the first time in a long time, Bedelia drifts off to sleep painlessly, a smile on her lips. She no longer dreams of being out in the cold, but a future in which they make the rules, as decadent and delicious as a steaming mug of  _chocolat vert_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolat vert is hot chocolate with green chartreuse mixed in. It's a popular part of the apres-ski at fancy resort places in the Alps. I thought the combination of decadent chocolate and potent liquor suited Bedelia and Hannibal well. ♥


End file.
